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Unless they are attributed to someone else, the opinions posted on this blog are Jeff Weintraub's (the blog's creator and sole proprietor, pictured above) and do not necessarily represent the views of his employer, clients, family, friends or anyone else who might even be remotely associated with him, wittingly or unwittingly. In short, don't blame others for Jeff's crazy ideas, which he conjures up on his own.

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But, for my money, the song -- "My Man" -- belongs to Billie Holiday. The others played the character who narrates the story of that song. Billie Holiday was that character.(Here's a great clip of her singing the song in what I'm guessing is the late '40s or early '50s).

That was true of plenty of her songs. As John Levy, Holiday’s one-time bassist and later a legendary manager of jazz musicians, once said, “When you listened to Billie Holiday sing, you felt that she had lived that experience and she was telling a story about it.”

“My Man” is about a woman so desperately in love she was willing to look past her lover's many and possibly dangerous flaws. He’s damaged goods, but she’ll still cling to him.

The intro verse, which Holiday sings rubato (without strict tempo), sets up the tension through a succession of minor chords:

Cold or wet/ Tired, you bet/ All of this I'll soon forget/ With my man

He's not much on looks/ He's no hero out of books/ But I love him/ Yes, I love him

So far, not so great. Still, if anything, you might admire her for seeing something in this guy beyond his looks, lack -- of what? -- charisma and all the other aggravation. But his drawbacks get more sinister and, one would think, harder to overlook:

Two or three girls has he/ That he likes as well as me/ But I love him

At this point, Holiday's voice suggests helplessness and despair:

I don't know why I should/ He isn't true/ He beats me, too/ What can I do?

Then the chords shift from minor to brighter majors, and she bridges to a steady, plaintive tempo, almost defiantly to the end:

Oh, my man, I love him so/ He'll never know/ All my life is just despair /But I don't care/ When he takes me in his arms/ The world is bright/ All right

What's the difference if I say I'll go away/ When I know I'll come back on my knees someday

For whatever my man is I am his forevermore.

Sweet as that sentiment might sound, it’s also sad and painful. It’s not just the garden-variety and often-hokey heartbreak that makes up a broad swathe of American popular music. Her man has such an emotional hold on her that she'll even endure violence, two-timing and who knows what other abuses. So much so that even if she tries to pull away from him, she'll "come back on my knees someday."

I’m of course not the first to point out how problematic this text is, and even Holiday herself may have been aware of it, too – at least earlier in her career. As Donald Clarke writes in his 2000 biography of Holiday, “Feminists love Lady, but they have an understandable problem with a song about a man she cannot give up even though he beats her: there was too much violence in Lady’s life, but on her first version of the song [which she recorded in 1937] the direct reference to physical violence is absent. Either the violence in her life had to yet come to the fore, or perhaps the tougher lyrics would have been less acceptable in 1937.”(As this website shows, the lyrics in that first recording of the song make no mention of violence. Not so her many later recordings of it.)

But even Clarke’s telling of Holiday’s story suggests that the violence, and certainly neglect, started from her years growing up in Baltimore. And they continued nearly to the end of her relatively short life (at age 44 in 1959). Holiday was, in reality, treated by “lovers” even worse than “My Man” could ever suggest.

Several of Holiday’s abusive lovers were also her managers, who beat her, skimmed large sums of her earnings for themselves, carried on with other women and fed her long-time, unquenchable narcotics and alcohol addictions in order, many suspected, to keep her less attentive to their misdeeds.
Among many such episodes one of her manager/lovers, John Levy (not to be confused with her bass player of the same name) dragged her by her hair across a San Francisco hotel room before a show in 1949. A band mate later recalled: “I’d go to get her for work, and she’s on the floor, and he’s standing up on her stomach – kicking her.” Her sidemen had to tape up her ribs before the show.

A few years later, another manager/lover, Louis McKay, who picked up where Levy left off, hit her and knocked her out after she goaded him during an argument, ultimately mouthing the word “mo-ther-fuck-er” to his face. A band mate saw the episode and reported that not long later, “here comes Lady, prancing from the dressing room, as though nothing had happened.”

Why and how could she – and many women like her – endure all this? Psychologists who see many cases like this might have an explanation. Clarke, decidedly not such an expert, nevertheless tries out his own hypothesis: “Why did she choose men like this, and why did they get worse over the years? …[S]he had little self-esteem [and] …avoided the possibility of disappointment by choosing unsuitable men. She was also a masochist; the violence had become part of her love life. Men who were tough, or at least behaved as though they were tough, seemed to be the only one who could do anything for her; paradoxically, she kept herself safe by not risking the vulnerable part of herself. It was a game, and pain was part of the prize.”

So it shouldn't be a surprise that the same bittersweet sentiment in “My Man” showed up in other Billie Holiday classics. In “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do,” which she recorded in 1949, one verse goes:

I'd rather my man would hit me/ Than follow him to jump up and quit me/ Ain't nobody's business if I do.

I swear I won't call no copper/ If I'm beat up by my papa/ Ain't nobody's business if I do

My man wouldn't give me no breakfast/ Wouldn't give me no dinner/ Squawked about my supper and put me outdoors/ Had the nerve to lay a matchbox on my clothes/ I didn't have so many/ But I had a long, long way to go.

“Don’t Explain,” which she wrote with Arthur Herzog and recorded first in 1944, features a cheating lover, and she rationalizes (or, maybe irrationalizes) the problem away:

As particular as Billie Holiday’s experience may have been, the heartbreak of “My Man” is, of course, all too universal - among many women in many times and places. Even in the supposedly enlightened 21st century America.

When I played the song for one of my daughters and her friend a few months ago, they instantly recognized a similar love-hate theme in the best-selling single from a couple of years ago, “I Love The Way You Lie.”

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/ But that’s all right because I like the way it hurts/ Just gonna stand there and hear me cry/ But that’s all right because I love the way you lie

Now there’s gravel in our voices/ Glass is shattered from the fight/ In this tug of war, you’ll always win/ Even when I’m right/ ‘cause you feed me fables from your hand/ With violent words and empty threats/ And it’s sick that all these battles/ Are what keeps me satisfied

…So maybe I’m a masochist/ I try to run but I don’t wanna ever leave/ Til the walls are goin’ up/ In smoke with all our memories.

Like "My Man," it's a gorgeous song. Until I read and think about the lyrics. and real, sad story behind them. How can a song be so sweet and so sad?

Jeff

[The photo above was taken in 1947 by the famous jazz photographer William Gottlieb for downbeat magazine. All quotes from musicians above came from Clarke's biography of Billie Holiday.]

ONE THING I'VE LEARNED from my many years of pitching story ideas to journalists (which is a big part of what I do professionally) is that I have to answer the question that every reporter, editor or producer has to answer on behalf of his or her audiences: why should we care? What is it about this story that will enlighten or enrich at least a segment of the readers, listeners or viewers? Why should anyone beyond a small circle of interested parties care about this story, and, if it's a specific anecdote, what lessons does it offer that are important to the broader public interest?

It's a fair question, and I'm proud to say I've pitched lots stories that I felt met and exceeded the why-should-we-care threshold. Too many nevertheless went nowhere. (If I had a dime for every time that happened....)

Like the time more than 20 years ago when I pitched all of the news outlets in Chicago on some pretty compelling and important (at least to me) public policy issue (shame on me: I don't even remember what it was). No one bit. They were too busy with more important news, they said.

That night, each of late newscasts on the three or four local TV stations devoted a good three to five minutes (a lot) on a story about the world's largest lobster that someone caught off the coast of Australia, or some such place. It was good video, I suppose. More importantly, they didn't have to send out crews and on-air reporters. They just picked it off the satellite. How stupid was I? How did I ever think my story could compete with the world's largest lobster?

While our media have only gotten worse since then, highlighting the sensational or the silly over the serious, I've tried to get a grip on my annoyance to this now-permanent feature of America's frequently shameful and shallow media landscape (with all due respect to the few truly serious, accomplished journalists who remain part of it and wonder how things have come to this state). It's like cursing the rain.

Here we are now with a story that even I acknowledge is bigger than the world's largest lobster: the death of Michael Jackson. But, even as I sneak a peek at some of the volumes of archival footage of his life or catch snippets about the medical investigation into his death or about the fate of his children, I still ask myself: why should I care?

For the record, I admit that when the Jackson 5 stormed the music
scene, I was swept away, too. I idolized Michael. Like so many kids of the day, I wanted to be him -- or at least the sixth,
off-the-bench alternate Jackson. Why not? He was about my age, and I could carry a tune, so if he
could do it, why couldn't I, right? (I was also sure at the time that I would someday play in the NBA.) The first 45 record I ever bought
was "I'll Be There," and both that and "Mama's Pearl" (which I think was
the flip side; anyone remember?) remain my two favorite J5 tunes. But
as he and his music evolved, they and my taste went opposite
directions. And then he became too -- how to say? -- idiosyncratic to take seriously. To me, following his story was like empty calories. Not worth the bite.

Of course we're interested in this story. To some extent we follow the news about Michael Jackson's death because we have a natural need to find out how a story ends. That's why I'm always pleased to hear about old friends I haven't kept up with and even about public figures who've been out of the limelight for a time. And the Michael Jackson story was way too eventful for anyone just to put down before finishing it, even for those like me who found it too bizarre and too sad to watch in recent years. Also, gawking at the misfortunes and grotesqueness (is that a word?) of others is human instinct, which is why it's an industry all to itself.

But as I sat in a coffee shop this morning, far enough away from the TV screen playing CNN Headline News to make it smugly seem I didn't care but close enough to see what it was playing, it was clear that the network couldn't let the broadcast go too long without returning to the news about Michael Jackson -- what's the family saying or not saying? what's the news from the medical examiner? what about the children? remembrances from the people who supposedly new him well; in-depth analysis (as if this is a pivotal moment in history, like the overthrow of the U.S. government; or, a new outbreak of the Black Plague, or, even bigger, the Super Bowl!) from all manner of Michael "experts"; clips of him performing through his very long (even for a 50 year old) career.

Scarcely any new news, especially when they're cycling these pieces almost every five minutes, but we wouldn't want the people to be without something about Michael. You get the feeling that, if they could, they would get rid of all the other stories about, oh, health care reform negotiations, more bombings in Iraq, the sputtering U.S. economy, even the sacrosanct weather and sports, for Michael's -- I mean God's -- sake! They speed through those minor stories almost breathlessly lest even one viewer miss the latest or, even worse, flip the channel to any of the other networks whose news hole is just as lopsided with Michael news. Even my beloved (and relatively more selective) NPR sees fit to insert a news item about Michael into most of its top-of-the-hour readings of news headlines, as far as I can tell. It's everywhere in the print media, too.

The managers of these news outlets will surely argue that they're just giving the people what they want. The people really care about this one.

I suppose that's the case. But, really, do we care so much about this story that we can't go a few minutes without another clip of the many lives (once-lovable/later inscrutable/still later troubled) of Michael Jackson? Even the biggest fans? Or does the blanket coverage force us to think we really care that much? Chicken and egg?

ABOUT A YEAR AGO, I was at Borders, looking for a Nat "King" Cole CD. Much to my astonishment, I found that Cole's CDs resided not in the jazz section where I looked first, but in "Easy Listening."

In fact, the CD I eventually found and bought, "After Midnight: The Complete Session" -- a 1956 recording of the Nat "King" Cole Trio -- is, no doubt, exceptionally easy to listen to; it has become one of my favorites since I first heard it a year ago. But it hardly deserves to be relegated to the bins of music that I associate mostly with watered down covers of tired standards, and showy or moody pieces meant to be ambient sound, not great works of artistry worthy of your careful attention.

In "After Midnight," Cole shows himself to be every bit the jazz musician. It's full of his acrobatic, crisply executed piano solos that only a master could pull off. And his voice, at that time well known for is smooth crooning in a soup of richly swelling strings and horns, is nimble, full of energy and experimental. Though he rarely strays from the melody line, the improvisation comes with his never-predictable phrasing.

By 1956, most of the albums Nat Cole had put out and his performances on his own new network TV variety show (he was the first black performed to host one), were heavily orchestrated productions, designed to place his silky voice in the tradition of many of his contemporary crooners -- nearly all of them white and appealing to mostly white audiences.

The best example of this is perhaps is his rendition of Mel Torme's "The Christmas Song," (you know, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...."), which is perhaps his most well known legacy today. It's a gorgeous performance that always makes me stop and listen, even though I've heard it more times than I can count. But there's much less of the jazz singer in him here than there is in his trio recordings. The edge is gone, and there's very little in the build of the song that we can't predict, as it is so familiar to the pop vocal conventions of its day.

When you see the difference between Cole The Crooner and Cole The Jazz Stylist (and there's probably no better way to observe the difference when you see this version of him singing "Nature Boy" with bass and drums and this version with full orchestra), you've got to wonder whether he enjoyed being a crossover musician. He was casting behind the genre that was not only his musical foundation but also the -- how to say? -- more authentic expression of his identity as a black man. There's probably little doubt that a career as a pop crooner had to be far more lucrative than one of a jazz ensemble leader (although he had made a good living at that, so I understand). But was it worth what he left behind at many points in his career? That's not a judgment of Cole but of the times.

Maybe that's why he recorded "After Midnight," which brought him back to his roots. As Ralph Gleason points out in the record's liner notes, "This album was Nat Cole's first with his small group in some time. Long before he was known as a singer, Nat was one of the best of all jazz pianists, winner of [numerous top awards]." The King Cole Trio "set the pattern" for the now-commonplace "trios of piano, bas and guitar working in hotels and nightclubs all over the country," Gleason wrote, adding: "Until its success, no agency would book, and almost no nightclub would hire, such a small combination." This was the age of the big band.

But they were surely a departure from the rousing black gospel singing with which Cooke began his career. If anything, his performance persona appeared to have been whitened by producers, who likely feared that Cooke's "race music," as it was known in the '50s and early '60s, might not reach beyond black listeners. Yes, Elvis had already arrived on the scene to introduce whites to "race music," but that doesn't mean the scene had been fully transformed yet.

The most striking example I could find of this on YouTube was this performance by Cooke on "The Arthur Murray Party," a show that ran during the '50s that was about as whitebread as it comes (think Lawrence Welk). Cooke seems absolutely restrained -- straight-jacketed -- though he stands out as hipper than hip in a room of bright white men and women dressed in tuxedos and society gowns. It must have been an interesting evening.

When you listen, however, to the album "One Night Stand: Sam Cooke Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963," you get a feel for who the real Sam Cooke might really have been. Recorded in Miami nearly two years before Cooke was killed in a dispute with a girlfriend in December of 1964, the concert sizzles with all the wonderful vocal histrionics and sharp verbal patter between songs that he was clearly not displaying in other venues.

Most of the great soul singers, from Smokey Robinson to Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin to Al Green, have acknowledged Mr. Cooke as a primary influence, but most of his recordings were tailored for a broad pop audience. Until the release of ''One Night Stand,'' his only live album was ''Sam Cooke at the Copa,'' a set of sophisticated supper-club soul. Like so many performers who got their start on the gospel circuit, Mr. Cooke thrived on audience interaction, and the crowd at Miami's Harlem Square Club seems to have pushed him to the limit.

Not only is this one of the greatest live soul albums ever released, it also reveals a rougher, rawer, and more immediate side to Sam Cooke that his singles only hinted at, good as they were.... Every track burns with an insistent, urgent feel, and although Cooke practically defines melisma on his single releases, here he reaches past that into deeper territory that finds him almost literally shoving and pushing each song forward with shouts, asides, and spoken interactions with the audience, which becomes as much a part of this set as any bandmember.... [W]hile he was a marvelously smooth, versatile, and urbane singer on his official pop recordings, here he explodes into one of the finest sets of raw secular gospel ever captured on tape.

Too bad we didn't have the chance to hear more of this side of Cooke during his relatively short career. And, while it's understandable -- but not quite forgivable -- that Border's would so wrongly categorize Nat Cole, it's a shame that his "easy listening" career overshadowed what was likely his greatest treasure and contribution to our culture. It seems that both Cole and Cooke were, in a manner of speaking, victims of their times, in spite of their great work and success. And, in a manner of speaking, so are all the rest of us.